


Impossible

by Love_Letter



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Complete, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, One Shot, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 09:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11460543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Love_Letter/pseuds/Love_Letter
Summary: Blaine Anderson was Kurt Hummel's soulmate, and then he wasn't. (Then he was.)





	Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> Soulmates AU in which your soulmate's name appears on your wrist like a bracelet.

__

* * *

 

_ Impossible things are happening every day. _

Rodgers and Hammerstein 's  _ Cinderella _ was one of Kurt Hummel’s favorite movies as a child. He’d loved the music, the romance, the ball gowns and glass slippers. He would lay his head in his mother’s lap, falling asleep to soulmates waltzing and her fingers combing gently through his hair. He knew every lyric by heart, and words that once thrilled him, like those of the Fairy Godmother, became something of a morbid mantra later in life.

Without a doubt, “Impossible things are happening every day,” was written to mean great things; things like finding out a “humble country bumpkin” could be soulmates with the Prince

It’s what Kurt thought too, for at least the first eight years of his life, and then an impossible thing happened: his mother died.

He didn’t remember much of it, really. It was too much to understand, for an adult, much less a child— to have one of the people he loved most in the world taken from him. It was unfathomable. He couldn’t believe it. And yet . . .

His father’s left wrist, which had always been wrapped in the elegant cursive of  _ Elizabeth Darling _ , was bare.

It was impossible, and painfully real.

Kurt had stared long enough at their joined hands for his father to notice, and when he did, he released their fingers only to kneel down and hug his son tightly. “I don’t know why it happens either, kiddo.” His voice was tight with his confession, “But thank God, I have you.”

He didn’t say anything, just tried not to cry, and wrapped his arms tightly around his father’s neck.

They were quiet during the drive home, Burt lost to his mourning and the road, and Kurt in the back seat with his brow furrowed, staring down at his own thin wrist. He read  _ Blaine Anderson _ and wondered what it must feel like to have that name suddenly gone. Would it hurt as much as losing his mother?

Six years later, he would have an answer.

 

* * *

There was something comforting about having a soulmate. There was the romantic aspect of it all, of course. Everything the movies made it out to be. Dates, and flowers, and hand-holding. They were things that made a perfect daydream, but those weren’t the things that made soulmates different from any other couples. No, the wonderful thing about soulmates was more that, well, they existed. Out there, somewhere, was a boy born into the world with  _ Kurt Hummel _ wrapped around his wrist.

It wasn’t entirely uncommon for same-sex soulmates to occur, but they were still a minority, and like with any minority, there had been adversity to overcome. Society had made satisfactory advances during the last few decades, but for all the laws passed and legal equality promised, nothing could be done about the prejudice of certain people. People like Dave Karofsky and his goons who took one look at him his first day of high school, sneered at his designer clothes, laughed at the name on his wrist, and threw him into a dumpster.

Kurt was used to being different, not just for his soulmate’s gender, but for his face, his voice, his slender frame. It sucked to be bullied. He hated having to pack a change of clothes if his first set got slushied. He was tired of being bruised and pushed into lockers. The frustration would bottle up inside, and just when he thought he might explode with it all, he’d catch sight of the name written across his skin— it was a source of the ridicule, and yet it calmed him down.

Somewhere out there, there was someone for him, who would make all this torture worth pushing through to the other glorious, warm, and loving side. The names were there to help, he supposed, like some sort of physical proof of the emotional upheaval you went through when you met your soulmate. He’d seen enough movies, read enough books, to vaguely imagine how it felt the first time you’d make eye contact.

Shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat, temporary pinhole vision. There was something like an electric current that ran through your body and ignited a fire that would never burn out, but warm your heart for an eternity, so long as that person was at your side. Unconditional love and acceptance. God, he wanted that. He needed that. So, at the end of particularly awful days, he would go home, collapse on the couch, hold his wrist, run the pad of his thumb over the name, and remind himself--  _ I will have that _ .

But until he had that, he had Glee. He had a room full of teenagers he might hate or love, and competitions for solos, and practice, and a million other things to keep his mind occupied. Until someone connected. And then he was back to thinking about it. When would it be his turn? How long would it take to find Blaine Anderson?

He admitted, sometimes it felt like he never would.

And then one morning, an impossible thing happened.

No, nothing great. It was an impossibly horrible thing.

It happened at the end of his sophomore year. He was exhausted waking, despite his nine hours of sleep, and had shuffled to the bathroom in a daze. A shower was too much effort, and so he grabbed his face wash and lathered up at the sink instead. He didn’t see it right away. He was tired, his eyes were closed against the soap and water, and it was only after the facial cleansing, when he was washing his hands of remaining suds, that he knew something was wrong.

He froze, breath hitching, eyes wide, and stared at the perfectly pale flesh of his left wrist: smooth, even toned, and nameless.

He must have stood there for a long time, because eventually his father was calling down the hall, “Kurt, leave some water for the fish!” He finally moved to turn off the faucet. Numb from his head to his toes, he backed away from the sink and sat on the edge of the porcelain tub. He flipped his hand over several times, rubbed the skin, pinched himself. Nothing changed. The bracelet-like inscription was gone.

It was impossible.

_ Impossible things are happening every day _ .

The old song played itself somewhere in his mind, mocking and sad.

“You’re gunna be late to class, kid!”

He didn’t care.

“Kurt!”

Why was life so unfair?

“Kurt?” His father poked his head into the bathroom. “Not dressed yet? You’re not going to tell me pajamas are fashion now, are ya?” He joked, but Kurt didn’t laugh, didn’t even scoff at the notion. He looked over and met his father’s humorous gaze with a heavy heart. His smile fell. “You sick?”

Kurt shook his head, eyes filling with tears at having to say it out loud. He rubbed at his wrist, the movement catching his parent’s attention, “Dad…”

Burt stepped into the bathroom, eyebrows knit with concern. He reached out, taking his son’s cool hands into his warm ones, and saw everything, or the lack thereof.

“Oh, Kurt…”

It had been a very long time since he’d seen his father cry, but in that moment of terrible realization, his eyes were wet with emotion. He pulled his son to him, holding him together. His embrace was the only comfort in the world Kurt had left; his love was the only love Kurt was ever guaranteed. He broke down in those arms, into sympathy and empathy and too much pain.

Blaine Anderson was dead.

 

* * *

It was impossible to say which was worse, losing his mother or the name on his wrist. In some ways, it was worse he lost his mother. He missed her tenderness, her voice, her kindness. He could still remember the taste of her best  recipes , ones his father never tried to imitate, ones he hadn’t yet touched in the old cook book. He could see her eyes, sometimes, and it would surprise him when he recognized them in the mirror looking back at him. He could smell her perfume on occasion, when women wearing a similar scent would walk by, and be bombarded by sensory memories.

It was worse to lose his mother because he’d actually lost her. He’d known her, however much a child could know his mother, and so he could miss her.

He couldn’t miss Blaine, because the truth was, he’d never known him.

And in that way, it was worse to lose the name on his wrist. Because he’d lost the potential. He’d lost his daydreams, and his hopes, and everything the future promised other people and not him, never him, because his soulmate was dead.

Wildfire doesn’t spread as fast as rumors. He hadn’t thought to cover his wrist, and they noticed— his friends, the teachers, and the rest of the student body. It was incredibly rare for someone to lose a soulmate so young, and since he was dead, no one seemed to care he’d been a boy. The tragedy of the situation overcame prejudice, because a soulmate was a soulmate, and anyone with a heart knew what losing one meant. People still frowned when he walked by, but they weren’t judging him.

He hated that even more than the bullying, which had apparently stopped in the wake of his skin bleaching. He doubted it had anything to do with lack of motivation, though. It was more that hurting him now, attacking someone recently severed from their soulmate, would be absolutely taboo. No one did that. There weren’t necessarily laws to protect people like him, but for once most of society came together to protect the vulnerable. He was an object to be pitied, not abused, and wasn’t that just fantastic?

“You can still date, you know.” Rachel said a few weeks after it happened, “There are lots of gay guys, especially in New York.”

“Yeah, I really want to date men who’ll leave me the second they find their soulmates.”

“You could date other severed men—“

“A dating pool filled with eight-year-olds.”

“ _ Kurt _ , I’m trying to help.”

“You’re not helping.”

He was fed up with counseling and shallow consoling. Even his father, who of course understood his pain, couldn’t help him. It wasn’t that Burt didn’t try, he did, but he was also dating Carole, and while some piece of Kurt was happy for his father finding someone new, more of him felt left behind. He was alone. He was truly, entirely, without a doubt, alone.

He wasn’t yet at the point where saying, “It gets better,” did anything to ease his aching heart. His dad must have known that, and yet it was the only advice he gave his son.  _ Hold your head high. You’re a great kid. You’ll be okay. I love you, you know that, right? _

It was right before final exams that life dealt him another impossible thing to accept, and although he did not know it at the time, it was a great thing taking form in a terrible catalyst.

“The moping is getting old, Hummel.” It was Karofsky again, spitting at him in the hallway. “The guys and me were just talking about putting you out of your misery.”

Azimio snorted, backing him up, “Yeah, how’s about you do us all a favor and kill yourself.”

Kurt couldn’t be bothered to turn and look at them, although the words didn’t roll off his back as they once might have. They stuck like needles into his skin, into his already bleeding heart, and nothing they’d said in the past had ever hit him in the gut like this had.

It was a stupid thing to say, incredibly insensitive and hurtful, and for the first time, someone took action. Because it wasn’t about Kurt. Not really. It was about soulmates, and so it was directed at everyone, especially other people who’d been severed, like one Sue Sylvester who had been stalking the halls within earshot.

The boys were stripped of their Leatherman jackets and suspended. Given the levels of her fury, Kurt suspected their punishment would span until graduation. Though their verbal attack would stay with him, something finally felt right in Kurt’s life, having authorial retaliation, having someone with power on his side. Coach Sylvester was looking out for him, whether it had something to do with his short Cheerio status or both being severed, he didn’t know.

There was a private meeting between her, Principle Figgins, Ms. Pillsbury, and Burt Hummel. While it was unlikely Karofsky’s comment of putting Kurt “out of his misery” had any real intent behind it, it was nevertheless a death threat, and not one to be taken lightly. To protect him, and emotionally give him a fresh start, Burt agreed it would be wise for his son to transfer schools.

 

* * *

Kurt was somewhat conflicted about leaving William McKinley High School. It was what he knew, and in those walls he had his friends, but as Burt pointed out, moving schools did not mean moving out of contact. He could still see them. And, finally investing himself in the idea over summer break, he decided it would be good for him.

Dalton was a prestigious school, it would look great on college applications, and it would challenge him academically. On a personal level, it was relieving no one would know his past; he would be sure to wear a bracelet around his wrist. Best of all, there was a no-bullying policy, which made the whole establishment sound like a promise land.

The only thing that dampened this silver lining in his life was red piping on navy blazers paired with gray slacks. The uniform served its purpose creating visual unity, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He wanted his McQueen scarves, Marc Jacobs shirts, and Dr. Martens boots. He wanted to dress up in everything that defined him, and yet, maybe the cookie-cutter uniform was better.

He didn’t really want to be himself. Not yet. (Although, he compromised, he was definitely investigating if any of his favorite designers had wristbands.)

 

* * *

Kurt liked Dalton Academy. The teachers were personable, or at least pretended to care more than the staff at McKinley. The students were, well, like any other bunch of boys— some nice, some aloof, all kind of rowdy in their own way, and all very much dedicated to each other. It was like the uniform formed some sort of brotherhood, and while there were certainly certain groups of friends, they didn’t seem exclusive, not clicky. Kurt hadn’t found his group yet.

That’s not to say he wasn’t welcome, he’d actually been in partial awe to be invited to lunch by several people on his first day, but that he was slightly overwhelmed. He needed to adjust to his new environment before he could start getting attached to the people, as much as the blazer seemed its own fixture in the halls.

He had a small single room, opting out of dorming with roommates to avoid obvious questions, and when classes were over, he would retreat there or go to the library and get through his homework. Friday nights he drove home, and Sunday nights he returned, and in a month he already felt the routine becoming his new normal.

His neighbors across the hall shared a double, Nick and Jeff, and they were the ones to finally pull Kurt out of his room to participate in extracurricular activities. There were movie nights (50/50 he’d enjoy the film), Ultimate Frisbee (he’d had enough of sports last year), and local outings (the ice rink was surprisingly fun, even if he did embarrass himself falling, but then so had most of the Dalton boys). The only major gathering he’d yet to partake in was, oddly enough, a meeting of the school’s Glee club. He’d heard it was more like an acapella boyband than anything, and it’s true he was interested, but it felt a little too much like betraying New Directions.

He stayed away, made excuses, but eventually, he got caught up in it— literally. There was an announcement about an impromptu performance, and the excitement of it all meant he got grabbed by a couple of friendly acquaintances from the math class he’d just left, and was pulled along with the crowd down the marble staircase to see the show. He was pushed up front, certainly not intentionally, but that was where the jostling brought him. Nick and Jeff spotted him and waved with grins. He offered a small wave back, scooting over to let more people file into the room behind him. His classmates had described the Warblers like “rock stars,” but it was still hard to believe students were rushing in to see  _ Glee club _ . That was pretty amazing. Kurt was just thinking he  _ would _ consider the next invitation to audition when they began.

The strategically positioned group of young men turned on the spot and started singing. They were in perfect harmony, voices and steps in tune, carrying the lyrics of some pop song from the Top 40. It was visually and audibly pleasing, and  _ wow _ if their lead didn’t shine brighter than Rachel Barbara Berry. He was easily the most handsome man Kurt had seen in, um, ever. And he’d seen a lot of guys. Especially after transferring to this school.

Olive skin, expressive hazel eyes, dark hair that could use a little less gel, but Kurt couldn’t focus enough to critic product when he was listening to  _ that voice _ . It was the sort of voice that was always going to take the leading role from him on Broadway, but at least he could understand why, at least with this one gay—guy! He meant guy. Not gay. Was he gay? Was Kurt allowed to think that?

In any case, there was something magnetic about him. He had charisma, that had to be it, charisma so strong it was pulling Kurt in like a moth to the flame and, uh oh, he almost actually stepped forward. It should not have felt so physically draining to stand in one place, and  _ not _ move closer to the lead vocalist. But he wanted to. He needed to.  _ Why? _

He fought down the panic rising in his chest, and used all of his willpower to step back, half stumbling into the person behind him as the song ended. The student he bumped into steadied him with a good-humored laugh, “We’ve got a swooner!” and that’s what drew the lead Warbler’s eyes to meet his.

An impossible thing happened in that moment.

The great kind of impossible thing, the kind of impossible thing the Fairy Godmother sang about, and Kurt stopped breathing with the force of it.

Because the second their eyes met, they both paused. There was no one else in the room, and while Kurt  _ knew _ that wasn’t true, he couldn’t see them, or hear them, or really do anything but stare and  _ feel _ . Shock ran through his body, both the electrical current he’d heard about and the disbelief it was happening at all. He felt numb and boneless, and every emotion receded like a riptide before rushing back in a dizzying wave to drown him.

Warmth trickled into his form, tingling in his legs, fingertips, even his nose, and it tickled and made him laugh with the feeling. His chest was warmed, filled with something indescribably wonderful, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt safe, warm, and loved in his entirety. It was too good to be real. It couldn’t be. He was faintly aware of the tears rolling down his cheeks, and might’ve cared more if he wasn’t so swept up in how impossible his life was.

Impossible.

The temporary dam that blockaded reality broke, and Kurt crashed from the high he’d let himself experience. Imagined. Kurt Hummel did not just connect to his soulmate, however much he wished it, or deluded himself, it could not have happened.

Because Blaine Anderson was dead.

The beautiful young man took a step forward, positively  _ beaming _ at him, and Kurt didn’t think it was possible for his heart to break any more than it had. He didn’t smile back. He tried to contain the sobs climbing up his throat, turned, and pushed his way through the crowd of navy blazers.

“Kurt!”

He didn’t know who called him, and then it was several voices, and  _ he wanted to be alone _ . It’s not like they knew, but if they did, maybe they wouldn’t follow. But would it make any sense? It didn’t even make sense to him. Nothing made sense.

He ran through the ornate hallways, sprinting up winding stairs, and didn’t stop until he was at his dorm room door. He was going to be sick. Emotionally and physically, he just couldn’t do it anymore. He fought to regain his breath, hands shaking as he fished his key from his bag and tried to unlock the door. He failed, once, twice. He was too shook up. He couldn’t see through the tears. Giving into his sorrow, he sank to the carpeted hall flooring and cried.

Losing the name was the worst, he finally concluded.

Because losing his mother, he was never alone. He had his father to worry about, to be sad with, they had each other and could push onward together. Losing his soulmate, there was no one else to commiserate. He was by myself, and he never felt it more than he did now, like someone had cracked his chest open with an ice pick and removed vital organs. How was he supposed to live?

He’d been doing well, things considered. Maybe it had helped to not know what he was missing. To have never known that flood of joy. But he did now. He did, and he didn’t know how, only knew it had to be wrong. He could not connect with someone else’s soulmate. It was impossible.

He looked down and fumbled with the bracelet on his wrist. The skin underneath was still bare, still missing the name he’d grown up tracing.

“Kurt!”

He recoiled from the voice, eyes darting down the hall to the dark haired boy who had followed him. He scrambled to his feet, managing to slip his key in and turn the lock, but not quick enough to get inside, to place a physical barrier between them. He was there, arms wrapping around him from behind, pinning him against the boy’s chest. He tried not to acknowledge the flutter in his stomach, the warmth suddenly rushing through his limbs, the feeling of  _ oh, there you are, I’ve been looking for you forever. _

“Kurt, you didn’t have to run. No one cares here. It’s okay.”

The words were soothing, or they should have been, but Kurt shook his head denying them. “It’s not okay.” He managed to squeak out, voice high and breaking.

“Yes, it—”

“It’s not okay!” He elbowed the young man away, spinning to face him but unable to meet his eyes. “You’re not my soulmate. Please leave me alone.”

_ Please, don’t leave. Don’t leave me ever. _

“But, you,” his arms were falling limply to his sides, “You  _ are _ Kurt Hummel. You have to be. We connected. Tell me the name on your wrist isn’t Blaine Anderson.” He was confused, half pleading, and Kurt couldn’t stop himself— he looked into those earnest eyes.

It had to be a coincidence. Some cruel and bizarre twist of fate. Could you connect with someone who wasn’t yours, but had your name on their wrist? No, not his name. It was the same as his, but, “It must be a different Kurt Hummel.”

He deflated, “So the name on your wrist isn’t…”

Kurt lowered his gaze, tugging at the sleeve of his blazer, and revealed the pale sliver of skin. “It was, when it was there.” It was the first time he was saying it out loud, even if it was a whisper, “My Blaine died in May.”

The stunned silence following his confession was unbearable. Kurt waited for the, “I’m sorry,” for Blaine to close his gaping jaw and pull back. Impending rejection, that was all it could be, but as the minutes ticked slowly by, the other boy did not move. His eyes flickered to meet Kurt’s (that reassuring surge of warmth killing him), and lowered again to his exposed flesh. With incredible tenderness, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around Kurt’s wrist.

The touch set every nerve in his body aflame. He jerked back, but Blaine didn’t release him.

“Kurt, do you,” he cleared his throat, trying to compose himself, “do you remember when in May? Do you know what day?”

Why did it matter? He took a shuddering breath and answered, “The 18 th .” He wouldn’t be able to forget it. “When I woke up, his name was gone.”   _ And I was alone. _

The tears were pooling again in his eyes, but so were those in Blaine’s. He lifted Kurt’s hand, brushing his lips across his rapid pulse, and over the place  _ Blaine Anderson _ was once etched. He felt faint, blood pounding in his ears, suffocating under the weight of everything he shouldn’t be feeling and was. Without warning, Blaine’s arms were circling him again, embracing him so fiercely he could only accept it.

“God, Kurt, I didn’t know, it didn’t even cross my mind.” He was burying his face into the crook of Kurt’s neck and shoulder, voice soft and broken in his ear, “I can’t even imagine how you felt. I’m so sorry.” He pulled back only enough to make eye contact, tears wet on his cheeks, “But it’s okay now. You’re okay. I’m here. You’re not alone.” 

It was Kurt this time, diving into the embrace of a stranger who felt too much like home. He didn’t understand it, but he was too exhausted to question it, holding tightly to everything he thought he’d lost forever. It didn’t make sense, “It can’t be you.”

“It is, I promise, Kurt, it’s me.” Watery laughter escaped him, “It’s absurd, but I can explain.”

It really was absurd, tremendously unfair and unbelievable, impossible and true. He didn’t have the name on his wrist to prove their connection, but Blaine had his, and they shared a mutual understanding through awe-filled eyes.

Because you see, Blaine Anderson  _ had _ died.

There was a school dance, a casual date, and Neanderthals just like Karofsky at his old school. There’d been an attack, so much worse than spiteful words or locker slams, and Blaine was taken to the hospital. Broken ribs, a punctured artery, too much blood loss, and on the operating table, cardiac arrest.

He was gone for three minutes.

Only three minutes.

And three minutes, it seemed, was enough to erase Blaine’s name from Kurt’s wrist, despite the fact they’d been able to revive and stabilize him; even though he was quite alive now, healthy, healed, and heartbreakingly real.

It was overwhelming to accept, conversation and emotions leaving them spent, but far from discontent. They fell asleep in Kurt’s dorm room, arms wrapped around each other, heads pillowed comfortably and hearts filled with warmth and belonging. It was absolutely perfect. In his tired bliss, Kurt thought to call his father, and he would, just not this second. He wanted to enjoy his new found happiness, his other half, his soulmate.  _ His soulmate.  _ Just for a little while longer, and then he’d share. He kissed the beautiful boy’s head of curls tucked into his shoulder, closed his eyes, and hummed the line of an old fairytale song.

_ It’s possible. _

 


End file.
